


The Treachery of Memory

by dannyPURO



Series: The Treachery of Memory [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Feuilly but it's not because I don't love him, i have my reasons, it's not even that angsty just a moderate amount of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: Grantaire can’t believe this is his life.The only problem, of course, is that Enjolras wouldn’t… want this, anymore, if he remembered. Enjolras may think he likes Grantaire now, sure, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what Grantaire was like, doesn’t know how he failed him again and again.If Enjolras were to remember, he would leave.





	The Treachery of Memory

Grantaire remembers first. He’s twenty when he does, far before any of the others would do so, and he gets struck, so suddenly, by a pain in his head and vivid visions of blood and the smell of gunpowder and the taste of wine and the feel of a hand, elegant and strong, in his.

After that, he remembers the rest in pieces. Bits here, bits there. Mostly, he remembers Enjolras. He remembers, nearly every day, snippets of Enjolras speaking, his voice so, so powerful, and the flash of his eyes from across the room and from behind a screen of alcohol. He remembers his own veneration of the man, and the sheer _wanting_ in his heart, and the disappointment that always seemed to be in Enjolras’s eyes when he looked at Grantaire. The anger. God, Grantaire remembers that righteous passion.

Grantaire remembers dying with him, right at his feet.

He remembers more of them, too, in turn. Jehan, sweet and a little shy and a little morbid; Éponine, sharp and completely understanding of what unrequited love felt like; Bahorel, with that mean right hook of his and that quick wit and that jovial smile; Joly (Jolllly), with his obsession with his health and his love for Musichetta and his love for Bossuet, too, which Grantaire… must have known about, at the time, come to think of it.

He knows he’s missing some of his cohorts; they come to his memory one by one, in a rush of emotion and images, and they come when they wish. Grantaire wishes they would come more rapidly, really-- he feels as though he has opened a compelling book and never finished it, most of the time, and sometimes all the memories and the things he doesn’t remember hurt so badly he can’t breathe.

So he drinks. Time passes. He remembers what he can, tries to draw the faces of his old friends when they come to him.

* * *

 

He meets Jehan when he’s twenty one. He’s working the early shift at Starbucks, a little bit hungover, a lot bit tired, and he hardly notices them come in the door, order a green tea frappuccino, and pay, until he’s handing them the drink with _Jehan_ already scrawled across it.

They freeze. “How do you know my name?”

Grantaire groans. Because right, he did forget to ask again. He tries to think back, then sighs. “It’s on your credit card,” he says, grasping at straws.

They shake their head slowly. “My card says Jean.”

Grantaire takes the time to look them over; they’re wearing crocs and a floral skirt, and what looks suspiciously like a shirt from a pirate costume. Shockingly, their outfit isn’t what makes Grantaire’s gaze linger. It’s…something about their face just looks so familiar, he feels as though he’s seen it before, knows he’s-

“Jehan.” Because oh, Grantaire remembers, he remembers his dear friend now, he remembers everything to do with them. Remembers that horrible scarf they used to wear, even. He can’t stop himself; he reaches out, fingers trembling, and touches Jehan’s wrist, he just needs to feel something, needs to know they’re real, needs to know he’s not alone.

Jehan gasps.

Grantaire moves to pull back, to apologize, but Jehan grabs his hand, lightning fast, their grasp tight and desperate.

“Grantaire,” he gasps.

Grantaire isn’t even wearing his nametag today, he forgot it.

He leaves his shift early, after that, because Jehan’s got that splitting headache Grantaire knows too well and because he feels happier than he has in years. They go back to Grantaire’s apartment, and Jehan lays on the couch, their head in Grantaire’s lap, asking questions and telling stories and demanding stories in return. They fall asleep beside one another, that night, desperate for solace and for something to fill the aching holes in their heart, and when they awake, they have come to the silent understanding that they are now best friends.

So that’s Jehan. Very similar, really. They look a little bit different, of course, though not by much. They still spout poetry, though there’s a lot most Shel Silverstein thrown in there, now. They still can’t dress worth a damn, though Grantaire has the sneaking suspicion that they don't even try to operate by the same rulebook as everybody else on that front. And Grantaire remembers that back in 1832, even, he’d always known that Jehan wasn’t entirely a man in spirit. Jehan’s instagram is new, of course, and the way they check it near religiously, too, but Grantaire thinks it’s almost charming.

* * *

Some of them don’t remember so easily as Jehan. Joly takes four months, much to Bossuet’s chagrin. (Bossuet remembers. They all came to the decision, once the issue came up, that they wouldn’t tell anyone who didn’t remember, and that they’d just have to keep them close and wait.) When he does remember, he thinks he’s dying, and when he’s done thinking he’s dying, he kisses Bossuet on the lips, for the first time in nearly two hundred years.

They start dating, to nobody’s surprise. They seem to be ecstatic that they can do so openly, this time around, and use this as an excuse to sit on top of each other in any and all public situations.

Grantaire doesn’t recognise Musichetta, when they stumble into Grantaire and Jehan’s now shared apartment all together, arms around one another, but one glance at the look on their faces and the way they look at each other gives it away, anyways.

* * *

Grantaire spots Enjolras on the street and nearly faints.

He doesn’t quite look the same as he does in Grantaire’s memories, but he’s still got his perfect silhouette and a gleam in his eyes and a scowl Grantaire knows all too well, and Grantaire knows it’s him right away. He could never not know. This time around, he’s wearing a red hoodie, instead of his insufferable red jacket, and his hair is a little curlier and up in a bun and he’s wearing _jorts_ , of all things, and Grantaire can see his knobbly knees. What the fuck.

He’s gone in a moment, though, disappeared into some crowd somewhere, and Grantaire is left wondering if he imagined the whole ordeal.

(That doesn’t stop him from drawing this new Enjolras every chance he can.)

 

His questions are answered a week later when Enjolras walks straight up to him while he’s drinking his coffee and sits down across from him.

He lets himself hope, then, because why would Enjolras do this if he didn’t remember, what could he want, Grantaire would tolerate Enjolras’s disdain for him if it meant he could stick around, maybe he-

“My friend says you’re an artist and that I could probably find you here. Do you take commissions?”

Oh.

Grantaire clears his throat, if only to allow himself the time to clear his head. “I-” he wants to say no, and just tell Enjolras the truth, because maybe he’ll think he’s crazy, sure, but maybe he’ll remember, maybe it’ll stir something up. He decides against it. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, Apollo, what do you need?”

He scowls. “Flyers. For a rally.”

God, if this isn’t perversely familiar. “Of course.”

“I have the information with me. I’ve seen your work, just do as you please. Maybe something red. And I need them by the twentieth.” That’s Enjolras, all right. All business.

“Anything.”

“I’ll pay whatever fee you think is fair when you have the posters.”

“Of course.”

“Alright.” Enjolras takes a breath, sits back in his chair. And smiles. At Grantaire. “Thank you, Grantaire. You’re doing me a service.”

And… oh. Enjolras never smiled like that the first time around. He never smiled at Grantaire like that when he knew who he was.

It’s such a warm expression.

Grantaire likes it.

 

He flops face-first onto his couch as soon as he gets home. “I found Enjolras,” he says, voice muffled by pillows.

Jehan drops their magazine in a dramatic fashion. “R, that’s amazing! Oh, I’ve missed him. When are we meeting up?”

Grantaire groans. “He doesn’t remember,” he says, so soft he’d be surprised if they heard at all.

They did. “Oh.” They move to squat beside Grantaire on the couch and run their fingers through his curls. “Oh, R, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire and Jehan have discussed, at length, just how Grantaire cared for Enjolras in their previous life. Just how much he wanted him, just how much he loved him.

“Yeah, well… whatever. Keep him close, that’s what we said, right?”

Jehan sighs. “Right.”

 

Grantaire throws himself into making the flyers. He makes draft after draft, staying up until the sun is nearly risen and scrapping his sketches in the morning, anyways. The twentieth is approaching quick, is the thing, and he needs… he needs this to be perfect, he can’t disappoint Enjolras again, he needs to make him remember, he needs him to smile at him again, he needs to win his favor so he can stay close and admire him, like he could do for hours. He needs to see Enjolras again, needs to hear his voice.

He finishes the final design on the nineteenth and puts it on a flashdrive, then brings it to the Starbucks the next day. Enjolras is sitting at a table with two other men, one with glasses, the other, laughing like he’s just pulled a prank.

Scratch that-- Enjolras is sitting with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. God, how had Grantaire forgotten about Courfeyrac and Combeferre?

Enjolras beckons him over with a smile when he sees Grantaire, and gestures to the chair across from him.

Grantaire feels like his heart is about to give out.

“Courf, Ferre, this is Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “Grantaire, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, my old friends.” But Grantaire already _knows_ , he knows who they are.

“Hey.” He waves awkwardly as he sits down.

“Nice to meet you, Grantaire,” Combeferre says. His tone sounds a little off.

Enjolras clears his throat. “So do you have the flyer design?”

Grantaire starts. “Oh! Um… yeah. Yeah, lemme just get my laptop out, it’s on a USB, I can show you.” He fumbles in his bag, but eventually succeeds in powering the laptop up and plugging the flashdrive in.

He shoves the computer across the table to Enjolras. “I can redo it if you want, I wasn’t sure what you were after, of course, so I understand if you-”

“Grantaire, this is perfect.”

Grantaire can’t breathe.

Enjolras keeps talking. “Ferre, look at this. Isn’t it perfect? I think it’s just flashy enough, while being subdued enough to look respectable. This is amazing. Far more impressive than I was even hoping for.” He turns to Grantaire again. “How much do I owe you? Two hundred?”

Grantaire shakes his head mutely. “I can’t take your money, Apollo. I can’t.”

Courfeyrac is staring at him, he notices. No matter.

“Grantaire, please.” Enjolras looks back down at the flyers. “You must have spent so much time on this. Let me pay you.”

“Never.”

“At least let me take you out for coffee,” Enjolras tries, and… what?

Grantaire doesn’t understand. “Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Enjolras says. “Preferably a coffee date, honestly, but I’m not picky.”

 

And so Grantaire goes on a coffee date with Enjolras. After all, he’s never been able to deny him anything, in this life or any other. (“I’ll black your boots,” he had said once, he can remember that much, and the sentiment has always been true.)

It goes well, actually. They argue a little, about politics and about mindset, and it feels so familiar that it hardly seems right that Enjolras doesn’t remember. But it goes so well, and when it’s over, Enjolras asks, softly, if he’d like to go on another date sometimes, and when he walks him home, he leans in for a soft kiss, hardly there, before turning and walking away.

They go out to dinner, next, and then again, and Enjolras takes Grantaire back to his apartment, that time, and kisses him hard against the wall and then takes him to bed.

Grantaire can’t believe this is his life.

The only problem, of course, is that Enjolras wouldn’t… want this, anymore, if he remembered. Enjolras may think he likes Grantaire now, sure, but he doesn’t _know,_ he doesn’t know what Grantaire was like, doesn’t know how he failed him again and again.

If Enjolras were to remember, he would leave.

Grantaire would rather Enjolras stay and not remember everything they went through than have him leave because of it.

And so they don’t talk about it.

Other than all than, things go shockingly well. Enjolras keeps taking him out, keeps letting Grantaire fuck him, keeps kissing him soft and tender like he likes to do.

 

Things go a little awry when they’ve been dating for about six months. Grantaire is sleeping over at Enjolras’s apartment more often than not, and they’re happy, really, and Grantaire’s met Enjolras’s friends-- Courf and Ferre, of course, but also Bahorel and Marius and how on earth does he not remember yet?

The thing that ruins it is that Grantaire still gets nightmares, every so often. Dreams in which he’s wandering around the ruined streets of Paris, decades and decades in the past, still drunk and confused and oh-- that was one of his friends, dead on the cobblestones, and he can’t find Jehan, and he can’t find Enjolras until he does, and then it’s too late to do anything but--

He wakes up and Enjolras is staring at him.

He must have been talking in his sleep again.

“Enjolras, I-”

“What do you remember.”

“Enj, I’m _sorry-”_

“Grantaire,” he grits out, and Grantaire is fully scooted back against the wall, now. He wonders if he should try to make a break for it now or if he wouldn’t make it.

“Enj, I meant to tell you, I’m sorry I lied, I was selfish, you wouldn’t have wanted me, you never did back then, I didn’t mean for it to go on so long, I-”

Grantaire has to stop, because Enjolras has pulled him into an embrace so tight he can hardly breathe. He feels as though he’s missed something.

“Enjolras?”

“You remember,” he murmurs against Grantaire’s neck. “You _remember_ me. I thought you were never going to remember.”

Wait.

He pushes Enjolras away gently, keeping his arms on his shoulders, keeping him close. “You- you too?”

“It’s been years.” He goes in for a kiss, but Grantaire sits back, pauses, so he stops.

Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“What?”

“Why are you dating me?”

Enjolras frowns. “Because I- I want to, R, I love you.”

He’s never said that before.

Grantaire stumbles out of bed, runs his hands through his hair. It’s too late, too early, whatever, for any of this shit. “You can’t. Enjolras, you’re not remembering right. You don’t love me, you can’t stand me, remember? You- God, was this some kind of joke to you? I-”

Enjolras is staring at him again, stricken. “I never hated you,” he says, voice impossibly soft.

“No, you did, you do, what’s wrong with you?”

Enjolras is out of bed in an instant, wiping tears from Grantaire’s cheeks that Grantaire didn’t even know were there. “Grantaire, I love you. Even back then, I know I loved you.”

Grantaire sobs.

“Oh, Grantaire.” He goes up on his tiptoes, presses a little kiss to Grantaire’s forehead, his cheeks, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras’s shoulder, stooping to do so, nuzzles against his neck. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he chokes out. “I thought I’d never get you, and then I thought I’d lose you. I didn’t know if I wanted you to remember, so I wouldn’t miss you so much, or to never remember, so you would keep thinking you liked me.” Another sob. “I get both?”

“Both.” Enjolras tugs him gently back to bed, and then lays against his chest, tracing patterns with his fingertip. “Always.”

They wake up late, the next morning, and Grantaire opens his eyes to see Enjolras watching him with an impossibly fond expression on his face. God, he’s gorgeous. And oh, right, he remembers, and he isn’t going to leave, because he loves Grantaire, and always has, and-

Christ. Grantaire feels as though he’s living in a dream.

“You haven’t been alone this whole time, have you?” Enjolras asks, voice rough and concerned.

Grantaire shakes his head. “Jehan. Bahorel. Joly and L’aigle and Chetta. Éponine.”

Enjolras beams, but it drops fast. “What of Feuilly?”

He shakes his head again. “I thought… I thought you’d have found him.”

Enjolras frowns. “No.”

Grantaire takes his hand from where it’s resting on his waist and holds it tight. “Not yet.”

“Not yet.”

Enjolras kisses him, then, and doesn’t let up for what feels like hours. “I love you,” he says when he finally pulls away.

“I love you too,” Grantaire says, and if his eyes are shining a little bit, well, he’s not to blame.

 

He calls Jehan from bed, to update them, and Jehan shrieks when they hear the news. Forty minutes later, everyone has piled into Enjolras’s apartment (save for Feuilly, of course), and they’re exchanging hugs and kisses, on Jehan’s part, and there’s some tears all around. Life is good.

Courfeyrac pulls Grantaire off to the side, after a few minutes, and onto the front patio.

“I should have known,” he says, voice low. “I should have noticed you already knew and told you.”

Grantaire shakes his head, still feeling giddy. “It worked out.”

Courf just nods, and smiles, and jerks his head back towards their impromptu party. Jehan is making pancakes and chatting happily at Enjolras. “Go on,” he says.

Grantaire hurries back inside and drapes himself over Enjolras’s shoulders, reveling in the happy noise he makes. “I love you,” he whispers against his neck.

Enjolras reaches a hand up and ruffles Grantaire’s hair, smoothes it down his cheek, brushes his thumb over Grantaire’s lips. He doesn’t need to say anything at all. Grantaire knows exactly what he means.

**Author's Note:**

> "Where's Feuilly?" You all ask.  
> Fear not-- I would never just forget my boy. A sequel is coming. I had to leave him out of this one so I could write another fic about him. Stay tuned.
> 
> UPDATE: Wrote the Feuilly fic. Check it.


End file.
